


flowers in april, snow in march

by pyrrhlc



Series: archivist!sasha (love on a smaller stage) [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archivist Sasha James, Gen, M/M, Not-Jon, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhlc/pseuds/pyrrhlc
Summary: Melanie glanced across at his pallid face. “Have you been sleeping recently, Martin?”He ducked his head. “I haven’t been going home a lot,” he admitted. “And the head nurse seems to think I’m … that we’re … Well,” he added, the tips of ears going pink, “they let me sleep here sometimes. I don’t want him to wake up when I’m gone.”In which ten months turns out to be a very long time.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: archivist!sasha (love on a smaller stage) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692085
Comments: 48
Kudos: 266





	flowers in april, snow in march

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elfgrunge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrunge/gifts).



> dedicated to elfgrunge, with sympathy

“Coffee,” Melanie said, shoving the styrofoam cup into his outstretched hand. “I think.”

Martin blinked at it, then glanced back towards the bed. It had been a very long two weeks.

“Thanks,” he said wearily, as Melanie collapsed into the chair across from him. There were dark circles under her eyes and her hair was going brown again at the roots, but other than that she looked better than Martin had seen her in ages. “Will you be heading off soon, then?”

“Probably. I think they still suspect something, but hell if I can tell them where Sasha’s run off to while all this is going on. It’s exactly what I didn’t want. Getting involved in all this Institute business, chasing down – well, you know. _Things_.”

Martin ducked his head, sipped at the coffee then looked up again with a grimace. “I’m really sorry,” he said, setting down the coffee on the beside table. “I don’t think any of us could’ve expected another – you know, actually, that can’t be true. What’s one more body in the Archives? I’m just sorry about the axe. We should have left it down in the tunnels.”

Melanie raised her eyebrows in silent agreement, took a pointed sip of her own coffee. “It’s not like there was any blood on it,” she pointed out. “Not really. It wasn’t real, was it? Not that I have a better story to explain _why_ I had an axe, but still. Can’t keep someone in custody forever.” She glanced sideways at the man lying unconscious in the bed between them. “Any sign?”

Martin made a sort of grimace. “No, but they took the IV out this morning, said he’s clear for pneumonia, so that’s … that’s good.” He let out a tiny sigh. “He does keep waking up, sort of. I was reading to him before and his eyes sort of flickered, but he didn’t respond when I spoke to him. Probably the last person he wants to see by all counts,” he added, scoffing. Melanie raised another eyebrow.

“You don’t know that,” she said, giving Jon another glance. It was hard to believe this was the same person who’d given her initial access to the Archives; he was much thinner now, dark skin looking washed out next to the white hospital bed sheets, and his hair had been cut short for practical purposes not a few days before she’d come out of custody. She looked over at Martin. “If you hadn’t looked for him … well, I don’t know. You don’t actually think Sasha killed that old man, do you?”

Martin shook his head without turning to look at her, his eyes still focused on Jon’s unconscious face. “No, of course not,” he said, in a voice that was much wearier than it had been two weeks before. “Tim doesn’t believe it either – I think,” he added doubtfully, with another of those small frowns. “I just don’t understand why she ran away. Maybe she decided she couldn’t trust either of us and now she’s got her own plan, I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Melanie nodded, chewing her bottom lip. “My flight’s booked for tomorrow,” she said into the silence. Martin looked up at her, startled.

“Really? When?”

“Early morning. So this” – she sucked in a breath – “might well be the last time we see each other. Least for a while.”

“You’re coming back, then?”

Melanie rolled her eyes at how hopeful that sounded. “Yeah, if it goes well. Just got a couple of points to prove, and I mean … well, after what happened down in the tunnels I’m not exactly in need of convincing anymore, but it’d be nice to get my reputation back.”

Martin was quiet for a moment, frowning down at his lap. “Elias offered you a job, you know.”

“What, that weird boss of yours? I wasn’t aware you had any vacancies.” She watched Martin’s gaze travel to the space between them, swallowed. “Oh. Well that’s a bit unfair, isn’t it? Does he think he might quit or something?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said. “But you shouldn’t take it. Needing extra help seems a poor excuse to me. And… God, I don’t know. Just be on your guard next time you visit, all right?”

Melanie glanced across at his pallid face. “Have you been sleeping recently, Martin?”

He ducked his head. “I haven’t been going home a lot,” he admitted. “And the head nurse seems to think I’m … that we’re … Well,” he added, the tips of ears going pink, “they let me sleep here sometimes. I don’t want him to wake up when I’m gone.”

She raised her eyebrows again, but said nothing as she stood up, still clutching her half-drank coffee. “Seems an awful lot of effort for a crush,” she said seriously. “Don’t forget to look after yourself too. Even if going to work seems like a massive pain in the ass at the moment, a change of scenery wouldn’t hurt.”

Martin gave a shallow laugh. “Maybe I should hop on a flight to India with you then,” he joked, but any semblance of a smile faded as he glanced at Jon again. “I don’t know. Everything seems to be falling apart at the moment. I’ve explained to Tim what happened but I’m not actually sure he realises – anyway,” he added, also standing. “I’ll miss you, I guess. _Don’t_ come work at the Archives, but do keep in touch. And be careful.”

Melanie snorted. “Strong words coming from you, little man. Show me out?”

Martin cast another weary glance at Jon, then nodded. “Sure,” he said, turning to pick up his own coffee with what Melanie could only assume he thought to be well-disguised distaste. “Come on.”

*

He was half-dozing in his chair when the nurse came in the next day, a horrible ache in his lower back, but Martin didn’t move – just watched through half-lidded eyes in silence as they carried out all the usual checks, changed the IV they’d left behind for malnutrition, all the rest. He didn’t recognise the man lying there anymore than Jon would probably recognise himself – just how much, he thought, could one person change in a year?

It wasn’t exactly grief that he was feeling, he thought. Or, if it was, it was a misplaced kind of grief. As hopeful as he’d been to find Jon again, the concern had been mostly about finding his _body_ … Even rallying against Melanie’s scepticism he hadn’t actually expected to find Jon alive, however thin, however malnourished … Hadn’t expected his crush to come back full force, as if the real Jon had never disappeared at all …

Hope hadn’t really found its way back into his heart yet; Martin was so unused to miracles happening by this point that any good thing seemed like a dream, a distant fantasy. It wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to people like him.

 _It’s all foolish talk_ , he told himself, sitting up in the chair, glancing blearily at his watch and then up at the only window visible on the wall. Melanie would be on her flight by now, all thoughts of the Archive forgotten, if she was lucky. _Jon didn’t like you so much then, he’s not going to like you now._ He _isn’t the one who made you tea._

And yet, after almost a year of that simpering, well-mannered _thing_ pretending to be him, Martin felt more fond of the real Jon than ever. Yes, he could be an arsehole sometimes, but at least that wasn’t acting. He was _real_. Real, and almost certainly angry when he woke up to discover his clipped haircut and all that missing time, but alive even so.

Martin still wasn’t sure he’d made the right call in telling the nurses he’d take care of it, thinking Jon would find it preferable to a buzz cut at the very least. The overall effect was rather tufty and uneven, _a la_ Arthur Rimbaud, but it wasn’t for lack of trying his best. It didn’t make looking at him any easier, though – this relative stranger who’d gone through so much while Martin’s head was turned the other way. He should have acted sooner. He should’ve made Sasha listen to him, forced her to tell him what she planning …

There was no doubt in his mind now that Sasha had had a plan all along – perhaps he’d been stupid to think she hadn’t, or perhaps – Tim certainly thought this, at least – she would’ve done better to confide in the both of them. But he was spending far too much time in the hospital these days for that to be his confrontation. They would just have to wait.

He bent down to retrieve his bag, pulling out the same book he’d been reading from last night after Melanie left and resolutely ignoring how he must look, even by his own standards. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw and contemplated that at least he didn’t have to worry about shaving; only the dark circles and mussed up hair were of any concern, and even they seemed rather secondary at the moment. He cleared his throat as he flipped open the book, reaching for the plastic cup of lukewarm water on the desk he’d left there the night before.

“M-Martin?”

Martin cursed sharply as the water slipped out of his hands, splashing all over the floor, then flicked his gaze to look back at Jon, suddenly wishing he’d let the nurses go ahead and give him that buzz cut after all, as if that might make him feel less intimidated by those familiar eyes, the slope of a slight frown wedged between them, those paper-cut hands Martin had so often dreamed of being held by, in a way that was just far enough from reality that he never got distracted. He looked away from them now, heart tight in his throat.

“You’re, uh, you’re awake,” he said needlessly, bending down to pick up the empty plastic cup and almost slipping on the patch of water. He dropped the book hurriedly onto the table, turned towards the door. “I should – I should go get the nurse, tell them you’re okay—”

“Martin, please,” he croaked. “Why are you – _what the hell is wrong with your face_?”

Sudden pain flooded the space behind his sternum; pain Martin didn’t know how to explain or describe, but that which was so terrifyingly close to fondness that it was almost winding. _God_. He had missed that voice. The Not-Jon had never been irked with him, so placid it had been almost irritating at times. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten so much.

He sank slowly back into the chair as if wounded, forced a smile as he glanced across at Jon, whose expression hadn’t changed and who now seemed downright alarmed by Martin’s show of calm.

“Martin, your face—”

“It’s, um. Well, that depends on how much you remember, I suppose.” He gave another forced smile, biting down on his trembling lip. _I thought you were dead. I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here._ “I don’t think even Sasha managed to put it together properly, in the end. Everyone got split up.”

Martin could remember giving his statement quite acutely – could even remember Jon giving his, despite the knowledge that he knew that memory wasn’t real, that Jon never got out. Looking at him now he couldn’t understand how any of them had ever missed it.

Jon frowned. “I – why am I here?” Martin put out a hand as he struggled up onto his elbows, but Jon ignored him, staring harder at his face. “You look older. I don’t understand.”

The roof of his mouth was suddenly very dry. “You’ve been missing ten months,” he said quietly. “Something – something attacked you in Artefact Storage, when we were hiding from the worms. It made everyone think it was you, but I didn’t believe it. And, um,” he added, suddenly embarrassed by how much Jon was staring at him, so much less the sceptic than he had been that it seemed to rearrange his entire face, but not exactly in a bad way … “Sasha had, um, this corkscrew. To get the worms out. That’s …” He pointed at his face, his voice already petering out. Jon was staring at an invisible spot on the bed covers, his breathing coming very fast.

“Jon?”

“Ten months…” he said quietly. He glanced up at Martin, blinking rapidly. “This thing, it was – the thing that took Graham Folger?”

Only Jon, Martin thought with a pang, would be able to recall statement details minutes after waking up from a two-week long sleep. If only the rest of the them … but no, he couldn’t think like that. “Yes,” he said, equally quiet. “I think you’d gone looking for Elias. To set off – to set off the fire alarm.”

Jon nodded, still looking dazed. “Yes, that’s right,” he said softly – a voice so defeated Martin didn’t think he’d ever heard it before, though he’d heard variations in that sleep-deprived, please-go-home-Jon-it’s-eleven-already way he had when Martin had been forced to step in and convince him not to sleep in the Archives. It was with a shudder that he remembered how the not-Jon would always leave on time, wondered if it had gone back to Jon’s flat, slept in his bed.

The real Jon kept blinking at him, like he was looking at Martin for the first time. “You mean, you said … did nobody notice I was gone? At all?”

“Not … not Sasha, no. And not Tim. But I … God, I’m sorry,” he added, taking in Jon’s face. “I didn’t ask – do you, do you want a cup of tea, or – or something … ?”

Jon’s eyes had been roving the hospital room, but now he looked back at Martin with a small smile he’d never seen him use before, much less directed at _him_.

“No, I – I’m all right, I think. But thank you, Martin.” He paused, still gazing at Martin like he was something fascinating he’d found during research – like he was seeing Martin for the first time again, but without the judgement, without anything—

“Jesus, Martin,” he said, and Martin watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, rather than look into that face he’d missed so much. “You’ve got grey hairs.”

He had been so prepared for bitterness, Martin thought with something like panic. He had not been be prepared for this. Genuine concern, and fear, and … something soft that lingered in the crow’s feet around Jon’s eyes, the way he felt himself picked over now, as if they were both unknown to one another – as if it were Jon himself that had done the horrible disservice of acquiescing to the idea of living without him, and not the other way around …

Perhaps it was the cruelness of the Not-Them that had allowed him to find Jon alive, he thought suddenly. It made a horrible sort of sense, with this, the real Jon, being so much more of a stranger than the cruelly twisted one in his memories. He’d been so elated, but that had been foolish, hadn’t it, to think Jon would be as happy to see him as he was … No, there was probably no one on earth Jon would rather talk to less after realising he’d missed out on on ten months of his own life …

“Martin,” said that familiar voice, in such an unfamiliar, gentle tone, “Please talk to me.”

“I, er, I should get the nurse,” he mumbled, stumbling as he stood up, desperate to look anywhere but at that face he knew so well … “You’ve been – you’ve been really ill, they’ll want – test and things—”

He shut the door behind him with a hurried snap, leant his head against it. Melanie had been right after all; he hadn’t been prepared for this, had always taken things a step too far … and yet, if he wasn’t there to explain things, who would? Certainly not Sasha, or Tim. _Definitely_ not Elias, not if Martin had anything to do with it. He would just have to … put his feelings aside to deal with later. He’d gotten very good at that, over the years, dealing with his mother – it wouldn’t be so hard to do the same again.

The thought rested heavy in his stomach – putting distance between him and Jon was probably the last thing the man needed, and yet he couldn’t seem to help thinking it made a certain amount of sense. He couldn’t get hurt if there was a wall between them, if no feelings found their way through. He couldn’t have Jon look at him that way with his horribly tufty haircut with an open heart.

There was a sudden sound from the other side of the door – one Martin didn’t recognise at first, before something else leaden dropped into his stomach and he moved away, reeling, almost colliding with the opposite wall. The insistent care giver part of him wanted to rush back in there and do something, but the rest …

Jon was crying. Very quietly, but it was still audible through the closed door. Martin sucked in a breath and turned towards the end of the corridor. He would notify a nurse and leave, he decided. No matter that his bag was still in there, that Jon might need answers. Just for a moment, today, maybe forever, he needed some fresh air.

**Author's Note:**

> y’all: but what if jon was alive :D
> 
> me: what if he was alive AND emotionally distressed
> 
> ty for reading! pls leave kudos/comments, i crave that validation station


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